


Guardian of the Endlings

by nsofties



Category: (여자)아이들 | (G)I-DLE, NCT (Band), WayV (Band)
Genre: And the work that people are doing to preserve endangered species, Biologist Kun, Biologist Yangyang, Biologist Yuqi, Biology, Car Salesman Minghao, Congressman Kunhang, Conservation Biologist Dejun, Conservation Biology, Dejun-centric, Heavily centered around the concept of Earth's sixth mass extinction, M/M, Mechanic Sicheng, Mechanic Yukhei, Mentioned Wen Jun Hui | Jun, Statistician Ten, The concept of functionally extinct species, please read authors notes regarding inspiration and basis, you can interpret xiaodery's relationship on your own it's purposefully left ambiguous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 12:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19441780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nsofties/pseuds/nsofties
Summary: Tucked away in a small, suffocating room, Dejun meticulously cleans each enclosure, methodical and consistent. The world isn’t on his shoulders – not in a literal sense, he realizes. There’re not many people who care about what he does – not many people who think about the same things he does. Not many people who worry about the same things he does. There is a world on his shoulders, though. It’s just small. Extinction feels real and heavy in the palm of his hands as he works.There’s only so much that he can do.





	Guardian of the Endlings

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by and partially based on Ed Yong’s article,  
> [“The Last of Its Kind”](https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2019/07/extinction-endling-care/590617/), for The Atlantic.  
> title taken from said article. i'm not that clever.  
> i have a deep-seeded appreciation for conservation biologists and the work that they do. i read ed yong's article over my lunch break and felt compelled to write. so i did.  
> extinction is heavy - though heavier in the hands of those that care for those that are going extinct. it's a lot to consider.  
> not beta-read, not edited. just written and posted.

Dejun meets Kunhang by chance one day – a man on vacation, whisked away from the crippling pressures of the political world left behind that is settled, with deep-roots, in the continent’s foundation. He feels in a rush, though his phone is silent, and the island always moves slowly. There’s never time to rest, he thinks – there’s never time to rest when the world is still turning when you aren’t doing a thing.

He knows he looks erratic, jerky motions and words said too fast and too low for the barista to hear what he asks for. It takes four tries – three more than it really should – for Dejun to order his caramel Frappuccino with whipped cream and a shot of espresso that the barista doesn’t _want_ to give him but does anyways since he’s a paying customer. And he needs the caffeine to fight the lull of exhaustion that pulls at his eyelids as he stumbles to move away from the register.

And Kunhang is simply watching, amused by the frazzled man who seems to have too much going on in his head as he sits at a vacant table, feet tapping an irregular, staccato beat against the wooden floors of the coffee shop. It isn’t annoying to Kunhang, and he thinks that his opinion is really the only one that matters in the bustling shop, filled with people chattering excitedly or with large headphones blocking out the world around them.

It feels like fate, and perhaps it is, as Kunhang picks up his drink and sits at the same table as Dejun and perhaps it isn’t fate. Perhaps it’s simply Kunhang playing a game that he simply can’t win – an attitude that Dejun would call a fallacy. For Dejun is a realist and Kunhang is a dreamer and perhaps, the smallest bit of Dejun is a dreamer, too.

A dreamer for a different reason, as told through the faraway look in his eyes as he stares into the distance, startling as his name is called, ignorant to the man who sits across from him.

And Dejun still has time, he realizes, laments, as he checks his watch, before Kun will appear outside the shop, fancy new car shining too brightly in the sun. He thinks of his broken-down Chevy and sighs, the sound heavy and oppressive, even under the loud sounds of the surrounding patrons.

“Kunhang Wong.”

Apprehension and fear and confusion muddle Dejun’s mind as he stands next to the table, straw halfway to his mouth. He wonders who this man is – what he wants, expects, needs from Dejun. The feeling is uneasy as he reaches out to shake the stranger’s – Kunhang Wong’s – hand after a brief moment of contemplation. The hand is soft, nothing like the calloused skin that adorns Dejun’s. It’s a hand, he realizes, of someone who doesn’t understand what he does.

But he doesn’t say that out loud. Instead he smiles. “Dejun Xiao.”

“Are you here for vacation, too?”

The question feels personal and Dejun peers at him, unblinking, as he sips his drink. “No.”

“… Family?”

“Work.” His replies are succinct and melodic compared to the incessant noise of the coffee machines. They don’t feel curt in the way such short replies should – instead they feel and sound _normal_. Normal from the man whose feet alternate in tapping some tune only he can hear.

“Ah. You must be sick of tourists, then, huh.”

“In a way.”

And Dejun _means_ it. He’s sick of them, in a way. He’s sick of the way they leave trash everywhere and leave the beaten path to venture into lands untouched. He’s sick of what they’ve brought to the island, but at the same time he feels grateful for them. Visitors are a double-edged sword, though his mind will never stop wrestling with the thought.

“In a way?”

“Yeah. In a way.”

“I hope you don’t mind be saying so upfront, but you’re quite interesting, Mr. Xiao.”

“Dr. Xiao,” interjects Dejun, blinking rapidly. “Dr. Xiao. PhD.”

“Oh. Do you teach at the university, then?”

“Post-doctorate.” Dejun pauses, swallowing.

Kunhang hums thoughtfully, head leaning on his hand as he stares up at the man. “Am I able to ask what you do, then?”

“I’m a guardian of sorts.”

Dejun replies with a smile – like he hides a secret in his heart. Kunhang supposes that he does, from the way he checks his watch and glances out the window every so often. And the descriptor of _guardian_ isn’t inaccurate, per say, though some would argue that it’s an overestimation of his role. Which, Dejun wouldn’t argue with, but he would stand by firmly with his descriptor.

He is a guardian – just not of the first thing that would come to a person’s mind. He’s not a guardian of the people, or of a place, or of something that will hold monumental meaning in a person’s life other than perhaps his own and the lab manager’s. And his advisor’s.

“Interesting. You’re interesting, Dr. Xiao.”

“Thank you, I suppose, Mr. Wong.”

It’s a compliment in a way – being interesting is the opposite of being _boring_ , and a step closer to being _unique_ , which Kun tells Dejun he is quite often. And Dejun likes the implication of being _interesting_ and being _unique_. They’re words which hold weight in a way that Dejun quite likes. He likes holding interest and he likes being one of a kind in a way that settles easily in his hands. He likes that even if he doesn’t know how to handle it all the time.

“Do you need something from me?”

“Who? Me?” asks Kunhang, pointing to himself. “No. Just a man on vacation looking for someone to talk to.”

“Oh. Well, I’m afraid I’m not much of a conversationalist.” And that much is true. Dejun finds his home in silence and expressions that say more than words can.

“It’s fine. I’m not particularly one either, which is a lie, given my line of work. But it can get exhausting, you know. Talking all the time.”

Dejun smiles to himself. Kunhang’s tone is light and practiced and the voice of a man who knows what to say to get a reaction. He thinks that he must talk a lot for a living. The urge to ask what he does flits across Dejun’s mind for the briefest of seconds, until the flash of the sun off a brand-new car grabs his attention and Kun sits outside of the café, five seconds away from honking the horn.

“Understandably so. But, I should get going. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Wong.”

“Likewise. Will I see you around these parts again?”

Shrugging, Dejun hums noncommittally, says, “I don’t know,” and means it. He doesn’t know if he will. _Feels_ like he will, but a feeling is simply a feeling and not a fact. Dejun doesn’t put much stock in feelings. Doesn’t trust them.

“Well, I hope I do.”

And maybe Dejun is the smallest bit intrigued by Kunhang Wong – a man with a command of the English lexicon in a way that’s foreign to Dejun and much more to say that he ever says. He’s intrigued, but not enough to let his mind dwell on it as he slides into the passenger seat, taking a deep breath of that _new car_ smell that he enjoys.

“Sorry I’m late,” Kun says, frantic to move the obscene collection of keys out of the free cupholder to allow Dejun to place his drink down. “I stayed up too late reading some paperwork from the university. Some new rules about purchase orders or something.”

“It wasn’t too much, I hope.”

“It wasn’t too much. It’s never too much. It’s never _enough_ either, though.”

“I understand,” Dejun says, even though he doesn’t. Even though all the administrative work that Kun does makes his head spin as he tries to wrap his mind around it. “Is that all?”

“Some other things. I’ve been asked to Skype in,” he explains, eyes focused on the road.

The trip is familiar to Dejun, even when coming from a different direction. He turns his head towards Kun, whose hands grip the steering wheel with a frustration that feels unfamiliar to Dejun. Foreign to Kun’s character that he’s known for a year now. He still has things to learn about Kun, and he knows that. But, he doesn’t dwell on them. Not right now.

“Are you going to?”

“It’s for a senate meeting. I should.”

“Oh.”

Dejun understands. He understands that the people that Kun will be talking to _won’t_ understand. Dejun is all too familiar with the feeling of frustration that comes with people who don’t understand – who don’t _want_ to understand why they do what they do and how important it is. How they have worlds on their shoulders that may not be the largest, but they add up.

“Are you going to?” he echoes.

“I should.”

“You aren’t.”

“There’s only so many times I can say the same things and get the same response, Dejun. I love what I do, and I know you do, too. And so, I know that you understand why I don’t want to.”

“Maybe this time will be different.”

Kun shakes his head, eyes still focused on the road ahead, the well-worn path to their safe space only minutes away. “I want it to be different. I want it to be, but I know it won’t be.”

“It’s interesting, don’t you think?” asks Dejun softly.

“What is?”

“That we’re always told that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and, to some degree it is. But, most of it is in the eye of the public, who see lions and tigers and polar bears and don’t see the things closer to home.” His half-melted Frappuccino grabs his attention and he takes a sip, dwelling in Kun’s silence. “I just think it’s interesting. And not a good interesting at that.”

“I wish others could see the world you see it, Dejun.”

“I think others do. But, we’re quite comfortable in our own space.”

The space is a morbid micro-zoo of sorts. It’s a space where Dejun feels both at peace and crushing pressure. Kun is tucked away, a fifteen-minute walk to his office, close but in the same way too far for comfort. Dejun wishes that he was closer – a step away. A shout away. Right beside him. He hums gently to himself as he stares into the chambers where they live.

They’re endlings – or, not really. Not yet. They’re not endlings. There are still small populations left, housed in these small, controlled chambers. Controlled chambers that dictate whether they live or survive, mimicking the world that they once knew. The world that’s since changed with colonization and climate change and invasive species.

Endlings – a term so poetic and beautiful in a way that the last known survivor shouldn’t be. It isn’t gritty or real. It feels mythical – as if they’re simply passing to another realm. With the sixth mass extinction upon them, Dejun thinks it sounds bitterly poetic in a way it shouldn’t. But, endlings are poetic in the way they bring forth emotion, he reasons. So, perhaps tragic beauty is the way to go.

He rifles through his bag for his laptop, opening the file that he shares with Kun and Yuqi on Dropbox. Half the columns are filled with a note at the bottom. They are meticulous and neat – nothing like Dejun’s. He supposes it doesn’t matter, though. Both get the point across.

**Yuqi Song**

Monday, 2019 July 1

5:00 AM

I checked in on the _Achatinella mustelina_ early this morning. Surveyed what I could find. I plan on heading back out later in the evening if anyone would join me. Yangyang, the new tech, seemed really eager to. The _Achatinella fuscobasis_ and _Achatinella fulgens_ enclosures should be cleaned and the population accounted for before the end of the day. I did for _Achatinella bulimoides_ after I was in the field. Hope the excursion last night went well – you’ll both have to fill me in on it during lab meeting this week.

Also, Kun, you should really do the Skype call. I’m sure Dejun said the same thing.

**Dejun Xiao**

Mon, 1 Jul 19

11:00 AM

Will get to A. fuscobasis and A. fulgens

Excursion went well

Lots of good stuff

Will let you know at lab meeting or if we cross paths

Skype call is up to Kun

Dejun, for what it’s worth, really likes Yuqi. Likes her passion for these small snails that were once abundant on the islands of Hawaii, now threatened by things that weren’t there thousands of years ago. They’re beautiful in a way that, Dejun realizes, not many see. Their shells are beautiful patterns, random and by chance and a process cultivated over millennia. It’s poetic in a way that endlings isn’t.

His eyes trail over the small space until it lands, somberly, on the aptly named _Death Cabinet_. It’s where the carcasses of endlings sleep eternally, and it feels morbid, because it is. It’s morbid in a way that’s curious and comforting in that it is proof of how real and large the threat of extinction is. It’s tragic in the same way.

The process of surveying and cleaning and changing food is methodical and cathartic in a way that Dejun craves in his everyday life. He watches as the snails attempt low-speed getaways from the glass dishes that he temporarily places them on. A small smile works its way onto his face as he works, meticulous and constant. Halfway through he realizes he left his Frappuccino, half-finished, in Kun’s car. He hopes that he isn’t upset when he drives home, makes a mental note to ask Yuqi for a ride home later tonight.

There is something terribly beautiful about this job, Dejun thinks, allowed to stew in is own brain as the hours pass. It’s only when Yuqi’s head pops up in the reflection of his laptop screen does Dejun realize how long his day has stretched on for. She peers over his shoulder at the small marks that denote coordinates of snails, each one a different color for a different species.

Making figures is peaceful for Dejun. A way to categorize and file away all the information he has stored away.

“Are those the ones from last night?” she asks, stepping away to lean against the divider.

“Yes. Do you want to see the total for the month?”

“Sure. Do you want me to send you the _mustelina_ data I got last night?”

“Please do. I still have to include the data from iNaturalist. It wouldn’t hurt to get everything at once.”

“I’ll do that when I’m back at my computer. Do you need a ride home after we go out to check for the _mustelina_ tonight? Yangyang is on his way.”

“If you wouldn’t mind. I know I’m a bit out of the way.”

“It’s not a problem, Dejun. I know there’s not much you can do about your car.”

“Right. Unfortunately.”

“Hey. It’s really fine. Are you sure you don’t want me to get my friend to look at it? His names Yukhei – I promise he’s reliable. He’s been working on cars since we were in high school.”

“If he wouldn’t mind.”

“He wouldn’t mind, Dejun.” Yuqi’s smile is soft but bright – no sharp edges, but enough definition that Dejun can discern excitement from fondness. He likes people that he can understand. He really likes Yuqi. She’s professional in a way that doesn’t feel cold, but friendly in a way that doesn’t overstep boundaries. She understands him well. “I’ll give him a call.”

“Yuqi! Dejun!”

Yangyang is easy for Dejun to read, too, considering he has two settings – overly excited and ridiculously serious. He struggles less with understanding the man and more with being comfortable in his presence. His energy is a lot for Dejun to handle sometimes. Especially after a long day steeped in silence. Regardless, he enjoys Yangyang’s company – a punch of energy in their otherwise quiet lab.

“Just let me change my shoes, and we can get going,” says Yuqi, rummaging around under her desk.

Dejun listens to Yangyang excitedly chat to Yuqi about _finally_ being able to go into the field as he packs up his things, making them orderly in his backpack. Dejun likes order – _craves_ it, even if he doesn’t always have it. He likes order where he can _have_ order, but doesn’t necessarily feel unrest over lack of order like he used to.

“Dejun. Are you ready to go?”

“Right. I am.”

It was early in his career that Dejun learned that science doesn’t have to be lonely, even if the thing that you’re studying is.

“You _are_ back.”

Dejun turns towards the familiar voice with wide eyes. Kunhang smiles brightly, though today he doesn’t have the energy to smile in return. He thinks of all the _Euglandina rosea_ they found near the safe space they had built. Thinks about it too much, too hard, too overwhelming.

It’s not their fault and he _knows_. The _Euglandina rosea_ didn’t _ask_ to be put here. They were. It’s in their nature to hunt voraciously, breed quickly, and overtake the natural population. They’re suited for this environment, in a twisted turn of events. It’s not their fault, but Dejun hates them anyways. Hates the havoc they wreck and the populations they shrink and just their state of being.

“I’m back.”

“A lot on your mind?”

“A lot on my mind.”

A part of Dejun was hoping that Kunhang would be here, in this congested café, again. Kunhang is a different breath of air; someone who doesn’t know that he shoulders the world – a world. He wants him to know, he thinks, but a part of him is also content to just have someone know him as Dejun Xiao. Man of caramel Frappuccino’s and short replies. That’s never how things will go, though. Not when Dejun Xiao, man of caramel Frappuccino’s and short replies is so inexplicably tied with Dejun Xiao, man of kāhuli and endlings.

“I _think_ I can assume that you don’t want to talk about it.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

Kunhang stares at him, eyes wide, before he gestures to the seat across from him that Dejun takes tentatively. A bead of condensation rolls down the side of his Frappuccino and, for a moment, he’s captivated. Until Kunhang clears his throat and he’s forced to look in his general direction again, though not in his eyes. Never in his eyes. Over the shoulder, top of the ear. Never the eyes.

Dejun can’t look someone in the eyes and tell what they’re feeling – they distract him, his train of thought. He’s inclined to look in the same direction as them, and he very well can’t look at himself. Eyes aren’t like smiles if Dejun breaks it down to its very core – not just anatomically, where they’re different down to the cells that comprise them. They’re different in that Dejun can’t understand them. Doesn’t try to. Doesn’t want to.

“Why don’t we start with… what do you do?”

“I study kāhuli – the O’ahu tree snail. I’m a conservation biologist” It’s an easy question, one that doesn’t require much thought or elaboration. Dejun’s favorite kind of question.

“Oh? So you must be really big on saving the bees and stuff like that, huh?”

Dejun’s face contorts at Kunhang’s assumption. He doesn’t know where the jump from _gastropods_ to an _insect_ happens, other than the man clinging to the only words he understood. _Conservation_ and _biologist_ – which is nothing new to Dejun. He’s used to people clutching at straws, desperate to understand him and the innerworkings of his mind. Not that he particularly understands himself, either. And, he’s allergic to bee stings, anyways.

“I suppose in a way, yes. Native pollinators, preferably, though honeybees also contribute to plant reproduction.”

“Pandas?”

“Sure, though, they’re _China’s_ animal, aren’t they? And I’m here, in Hawaii. Studying _Hawaii’s_ animal.”

“Snails?”

“All biodiversity is important, really. Even the ones we don’t know about.”

Dejun feels frustrated. It’s a carbon copy of conversations he’s had too many times to say. He understands – it’s not that he doesn’t. Exotic animals, big animals, powerful animals are eye-catching. They’re victims of poaching and illegal pet trade and Dejun understands. It’s not that he doesn’t have compassion for those creatures. If anything, Dejun feels that he has _more_ compassion than the average person for those animals.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s so much we don’t know. Understand. So much we still need to catalogue. Maybe something out there is a key to evolutionary history. We don’t know that, though. We won’t know that, though.”

“There’s a ton we don’t know yet, huh.”

“Sure. And we may never know.” Dejun shrugs noncommittally, staring at the menu of the café. Junhui, the barista, waves at him, breaking him from his descent into his mind. “It’s not okay. But, it’s okay.”

“I see.”

“It’s okay if you don’t.”

“I’m trying to.”

Dejun’s smile is like that of someone holding a secret close to their chest. It captivates Kunhang as he leans forward slightly. It’s gone in a second, though, as his eyes flit down to his watch and back out the window, seeing through the throngs of people and somewhere that Kunhang can’t reach – can’t see or know the way that Dejun does. He’s fascinating in a wonderful sort of way, Kunhang decides.

“Do you know what an endling is?”

His voice is small and, for a moment, Kunhang thinks he’s hallucinating. Is sure of it until Dejun looks back in his direction, eyes wide in a way akin to childish wonder.

“A… what?”

“An _endling_.”

“Is that something from a fairytale?”

“That would be nice if it was.”

“What is it?”

“The last one,” whispers Dejun, wiping condensation off the cup.

“Of…?”

“Anything. Well, any organism, I should say. The last survivor. The last one of a species, functionally extinct. One last breath before they’re gone.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a word quite beautiful for something so devastatingly tragic. A gentle reminder that the path of destruction is not left unscarred.”

Kunhang wonders to himself if Dejun is _actually_ a poet – a man on a journey of self-discovery that landed himself here, of all places. And, if Dejun _knew_ , he would tell Kunhang that such a path would have been nice – calmer, sweeter, and more plentiful than the road he walks now. Sometimes his brain feels too full with too many things and he struggles to say anything out loud. Sometimes things come out too easy. There’s no peaceful middle ground. He wishes there was.

“Have you worked with one before?”

“No. And I, quite honestly, hope I never have to.” He traces patterns into the condensation, swirling and mindless. The word endling is haunting – the idea of working with one even more so. The idea curls around his heart and constricts it, steadfast fingers digging into the cardiac tissue, never ready to let go. “It would be quite terrible to get so attached to something that will leave eventually, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, I’m sure you could say that about people, too.”

“Of course. But a person isn’t an entire species.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“You shouldn’t suppose. It _is_.”

It is moments like these that Dejun sees that _he_ understands the concept of mortality on a grander scale than most people around him. He sees it in big pictures – feels the weight on an entire history on his shoulders as he works. That he _sees_ this in real time – feels the overwhelming pressure of the need to preserve the life histories of these creatures, not well understood. He sees, in a way that others don’t, the results of attempts and failures to globalize, colonize, conceptualize. Wonders what the world looked like, untouched by the _Homo sapiens_ hand.

“You’re right. It is.”

“Dejun.”

Yuqi’s face appears in his periphery and he turns his head towards the familiar face with a smile. He is saved by the proverbial bell – the arrival of Yuqi a beacon in the shitshow of a conversation which he has dragged himself through thus far. Her expression is mildly concerned as she takes stock of Kunhang before turning her attention back to Dejun, who looks at her expectantly. Her smile is a constant – familiar and recognizable. Kunhang has too many smiles – too many things for Dejun to learn in one sitting. It’s a lot.

“Yuqi.”

“Are you still waiting for Kun?”

“I am.”

“I’ll drive you, then. I assume he’s going to be running late.”

“Oh?”

She looks troubled for a moment, rubbing the back of her neck. “You’ll see when we get to the station.”

“Did something happen?”

“It wasn’t bad. We were able to handle it in time. Nothing irreversible happened.”

“Oh. I’m glad, then.” Standing, he nods to Kunhang. “It was nice to see you again, today.”

“You as well, Dr. Xiao. Good luck. Maybe I’ll see you around again?”

“Maybe.”

Tuesdays are quite terrible by Dejun’s standards. They always begin late in the day, after the sun has already begun its slow descent down the horizon. Daylight wasted in his room, listening to the sounds of the island outside of his window. Tuesdays are quite terrible simply because Dejun feels like he’s _wasting_ them, even after a lengthy lecture from Kun is the reason behind this once-a-week break to divide up his demanding schedule.

Sitting in an autobody shop and kicking his feet back and forth feels just as wasteful, if he’s being honest. Yuqi sits beside him, occupied on her phone as he replies to a flurry of incoming messages. Eventually the door opens and Yukhei sticks his head through the doorway, staring at them with a thoughtful expression. It’s silent until he opens the door wider, gesturing for them to follow him.

He turns towards them, arms folded, Sicheng slamming the hood of the car shut behind him. Dejun _knows_ it isn’t good – knew it wasn’t good the first time it took four tries to start up his car. His car is _old_ – something dragged across the ocean from the continental mainland and plopped into an environment not fit for a 1996 Chevy. He loves it, anyways.

“Have you considered just getting a new car?”

Dejun stares at Yukhei, lips pursed as he follows his line of sight to the worn-down paint chipping off his car. It was something that had slipped across his mind once, sure, but he was frightfully determined to have his car last for several more years. His savings still hadn’t recovered from his last large purchase – a new desktop that sits pretty on his desk at the university. An unsettled feeling bubbles in his stomach as he shakes his head.

“I shouldn’t.”

“I mean, I think you should.” Sicheng, the other mechanic, pats the hood of his car, the metallic sound bouncing off the walls. “You’re lucky this thing didn’t shit out on you while you were driving somewhere.”

“It _did_ Sicheng. That’s why Dejun hasn’t been driving it,” interjects Yuqi with a frown. “He was driving to the northwest part of the island and it just _died_ in the middle of the road while he was driving.”

“Oh. Well then. I really do think your best bet is to get a new car. Or, like, start biking places, maybe.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to save it?”

“It would be cheaper to buy a used car, I think,” says Yukhei apologetically.

“Oh. Thank you for taking a look at it, then.”

“I know the guy who runs the used car dealership. I’ll see what I can do to help you out.” Sicheng’s expression is apologetic. “I know cars ain’t cheap.”

“Nothing is cheap,” mutters Yuqi.

Dejun nods in agreement. Nothing _is_ cheap, whether monetarily or in terms of sacrifice. He tries not to think about how well-intentioned, ill-advised human error leads to environmental collapse as Yukhei sticks out his hand for Dejun to shake, which he does, albeit tentatively, wrinkling his nose at the grease that coats his hand. Sicheng follows up and Yuqi is quick to hand him a tissue.

“How about we all go to the shop down the road for some lunch? I think we could all use some lunch, yeah?” She’s already pushing everyone out of the shop, Yukhei tossing a, _Yixing, we’ll be back!_ over his shoulder as they walk.

The small shop is familiar – to all of them. Dejun learns that none of them grew up on the island, all perplexed polyglots with little understanding of Pidgin, though Dejun had found himself growing an overwhelming fondness for the vernacular. The kind auntie winks at him as she passes him his food and he unsuccessfully smothers a triumphant smile as he sits down at a table with Yukhei, Yuqi, and Sicheng, who are already deep in a conversation.

It’s a bit overwhelming, being whisked away into an already established friendship. Dejun likes Yuqi, and he finds that he likes Yukhei and Sicheng well enough. The true difficulty of the situation lies in establishing _himself_ within that niche – finding a place empty enough he can fit himself into it. He doesn’t _need_ to. It isn’t on the top of his list of things to do – it falls somewhere between getting more laundry detergent before he runs out again and _actually_ doing the laundry – but it’s something that he thinks he’d like to do.

Something about them feels familiar and comforting and he enjoys their company enough. Blinks a few times as Ten appears, offering Dejun a face-splitting smile and a warm _hello_. Dejun likes Ten enough, also. Ten is open and honest – the kind of person Dejun really likes, because there’s no need to read his face, read into his tone or choice of words. Ten is simply, unabashedly Ten. Dejun appreciates it.

“Did you see the R Markdown file I sent you, Dejun?”

“ _Please_ don’t talk about work over lunch,” groans Yuqi.

“I did. Thank you for that, Ten.”

“Not a problem! Your code was pretty spot on – one of your loops was broken, though, and so it gave you an incorrect output for your histogram.”

Dejun hums thoughtfully, thinking to the long line of errors he received the last time he tried to run his code, nodding. “That makes sense. The loop being broken would stop the rest of the code, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. _Enough_ about work. Workaholics,” sniffs Yuqi.

“You’re one to talk! You always take the bizarre hours!” argues Ten. “I’m _leaving_ when you show up!”

“I’m a _night owl_. I prefer those hours.”

“I do, too. It’s also not as warm at night,” explains Dejun. “But, it’s hard without a car.”

“Still?”

“That’s why we’re here.” Sicheng waves in his own general direction with a displeased expression. “Dejun’s car is _fucked_ though. I’m gonna call up Minghao and see if he can help him out and offer up a car for scrap or just cheaper than he would otherwise. He owes me, so he better.”

“If Minghao can’t help, I’ll call up a friend and see if he can help. But I think Minghao is reasonable. He’ll help.”

And Ten is right, as Ten tends to be. Minghao is reasonable and he’s helpful and Dejun tries not to think of the expansion of his social circle as Minghao gestures for him to follow behind. He passes rows and rows of used cars, all in good shape to the untrained eye of Dejun. Sicheng trails behind him, expression unreadable as they finally stop in front of a car – a 2004 Subaru Forester. Minghao’s hand pats the hood of the car affectionately and, before Dejun can even _say_ anything, Sicheng is all over the car, checking it thoroughly.

“Yukhei is the one who _did_ the check for this car before I put it up for sale, Sicheng. You don’t have to worry about it.” A sigh slips from Minghao’s lips as Sicheng ignores him, continuing to check the car regardless. “So, Dejun. You been on the island long?”

“No. A year.”

“That’s pretty long. Thinking of staying for good?”

“I’d like to, if they’ll let me.”

“Yuqi says that Kun’s really impressed with you. I’m sure something will work out,” interjects Sicheng, closing the hood of the car. “Also, this is a good one. Thanks for letting Dejun pay in installments, ‘Hao. And dropping the price.”

“He’s trying to save the natural fauna of this island. It’s commendable.” Minghao shrugs like it’s nothing – like it’s the _least_ he could do, and Dejun feels himself beginning to find a fondness for this man who makes the purchase easy, tells him to remember to register the car as soon as possible, and to stop by sometimes. “I’d love to hear some crazy snail stories sometime.”

“Well. I’m not sure if I have any. But if I have one, I’ll be sure to tell you. Thank you, Minghao.”

“Sure thing, Dejun. Don’t be a stranger, Sicheng!”

“I wish I was one.”

“Dr. Xiao!”

Kunhang is excitedly patting the table in front of an empty chair, Dejun retrieving his drink as his name is called. It’s become something of a ritual, and in the back of his mind, Dejun wonders when exactly this man’s vacation is going to end. It’s been a week already. Vacations usually aren’t so long, Dejun thinks. And then thinks about how he doesn’t really _do_ vacations, so he wouldn’t know.

It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to – that’s only _part_ of the reason. The other half is that Dejun isn’t _sure_ what he would do. Even on his days off he spends time working from home. He wonders if all these new people in his life are signal of a change in the horizon. Dejun mostly hopes that, if change is coming, that it is good. That _something_ good is going to happen, if something happens at all.

“Mr. Wong.”

“Kunhang is fine.”

Perhaps Kunhang Wong is the change.

“Then Dejun is fine.”

“How has work been going?”

“How long is your vacation?”

Kunhang sits straighter, head tilting to the side. “My vacation?”

“Right. You’re on vacation, aren’t you?”

Kunhang blinks slowly before nodding. “I am. I have another week.”

“Isn’t two weeks pretty long for a vacation, though?” Dejun pauses before he sips his drink, looking thoughtful. “Actually, I don’t think I’d know.”

“Do you ever relax, Dejun?”

“There’s no time to relax.”

“I’m sure there is.”

And sure, there is. There _is_ time, but Dejun isn’t sure if he can relax. If his mind can step away from his work – the two aspects of his life intertwined so deeply. And it’s dangerous and it’s unhealthy and all things that his advisor had always warned him about. Dejun knows, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when there are things to be done. Yuqi drags him out of the lab enough that not every waking moment is spent there, even though he feels like they _should_. When there’s so much weight on his shoulders, in his hands, other things feel inconsequential.

And Yuqi appears, as Yuqi does, standing next to the table with a bright smile, chair in hand.

“Kun told me this is your favorite café. I thought I could get here earlier than you. I guess I was wrong.” Turning towards Kunhang, she offers her hand out. “Yuqi Song! Dejun and I work together.”

“Kunhang Wong. I’m just here on vacation.”

“I hope the Skype call goes well,” mutters Dejun under his breath.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. He’s done this hundreds of times. You know they offered to pay for his travel expenses? So he could go in person to talk?”

“But he didn’t want to.”

“Yeah.”

“None of us would want to. Going far implies a lot of things. Kun likes being close by.”

“Right. _Anyways_ , Kunhang, was it? I’m sure Dejun’s told you what we do. What do you do?”

Kunhang looks slightly troubled as he leans back in his chair, ruffling his own hair before huffing out a sigh. “I’m a congressman.”

“Oh. So _not_ Dejun’s favorite type of person, really.”

“I wasn’t aware he was a congressman.”

“I assumed as much! The last time you spoke to a congressman it was when he was visiting to see our work and you really let him have it. I thought Kun was going to pass out.”

“He called kāhuli _inconsequential_ to the _grand scheme of things_. People who don’t know anything shouldn’t speak like that.”

Kunhang raises an eyebrow, surprised by Dejun’s sudden outburst. It isn’t _really_ out of character for him, though, if he gives it deeper thought. The man is passionate about his work, that much Kunhang can tell. He’s passionate, energy bubbling under the surface, concealed by a façade. Or, perhaps not a façade. Kunhang thinks that perhaps Dejun’s passion is hyper-focused – an admirable quality to the man who ambles a bit aimlessly through life, having reached a career goal, and self-set endpoint.

He wonders how it is to have unending passion.

“I know. And you know I agree with you. But when we’re dealing with politicians who are _helping us_ get funding and public support, you can’t go calling them an imbecile.”

“He _was_ one though.”

“Politicians are indeed imbeciles when it comes to worlds that we don’t understand,” Kunhang interjects with a glimmer in his eyes. “And while I probably would’ve agreed with you, I can also assure you that politicians are _not_ fans of being called unintelligent. Even if we are.”

“No one likes being called stupid.” Yuqi sighs, shaking her head. “Dejun just gets a little defensive, is all.”

“Right. A little.” There’s humor and something close to, but not quite yet, fondness in Kunhang’s voice as he replies, entertained by the bickering between two friends.

“Let me know when you want to get going, Dejun. There’s not much to be done. We have to wait for Kun to finish his Skype call. Yangyang and I took care of most things earlier this morning.”

“Well, there’s no rush then, is there? I can finish my drink.”

“You _never_ finish it. You always leave half.”

Dejun pauses, before nodding. “I always leave it in the car.”

“Aren’t you Mr. Environment?”

“I am. I recycle. Most of the things I use are reusable. We all have our vices – mine happens to be recyclable cups I get once a day.”

“He used to have a reusable tumbler, but it fell and broke. He just hasn’t gotten a new one yet,” explains Yuqi.

“Do you work with endlings, too?”

“Ah. Dejun asked you about that, didn’t he?”

“He did.”

“I did.” _I was curious_ , his mind adds as an afterthought.

“It’s more that we prevent endlings. We’re sort of like… guardians, preventing those from entering the realm of becoming an endling. Once you’re an endling, there’s no going back.”

“Surely the scientists that are trying to bring back mammoths could bring back some of these species?”

“Of course. Bring back the wooly mammoth,” hisses Dejun under his breath, shaking his head. “Bring back the wooly mammoth, a creature that wouldn’t even be able to survive on this earth. Of course.”

“It’s not that easy.” Yuqi swirls her latte a few times before shrugging. “Plus, no one wants to spend money trying to bring back snails or bugs or amphibians. They don’t matter to people as much as creatures the human mind can only imagine.”

“It is infinitely easier to get public support to save Sumatran tigers than it is to save kāhuli or a horde of amphibians with diversity more complex than the human mind can understand – than the human mind will ever know.”

“Dejun is talking about the chytrid fungus. It’s devastating amphibian populations across the world. It was spread through pet trade. Well, in part, anyways. And amphibians are diverse, a large extent of the species unknown.”

“You should read about Tougie,” says Dejun softly. “The loneliest Rabbs’ fringe-limbed tree frog. It’s bizarre, knowing that an endling is in your care – that they can be gone the next day.”

“Right. Most extinctions just happen… out there.” Yuqi gestures out the window thoughtfully before turning back to Kunhang. “It’s not figured out that they’re gone until it’s been years and not one has been found. Out there, extinctions happen. And sometimes, they don’t. Sometimes they happen in temperature- and humidity-controlled chambers under the watchful eyes of people who would like more than anything for them to never go.”

“It must be hard,” whispers Kunhang.

“Extremely.”

“I don’t think anyone would like to be in that position.” Yuqi stares at her drink, unblinking.

“It must be hard. And lonely.”

Dejun wonders if Kunhang spent his two weeks trapped in the café with nowhere else to go. He always seemed to be there when Dejun was, anyways. So, to the mind of a passerby, perhaps it did seem a bit like a moment replayed over and over again, slight deviations from the norm. Kunhang is still an enigma, and Dejun figures that he always will be. A bit like a boat, docked at the same harbor for a brief moment, exchanges of names and stories but no promises to see one another again.

He enjoys Kunhang’s company, regardless.

“Right. My flight leaves this evening.”

It’s a Tuesday.

“Oh. I hope you have a safe flight, then.”

“Thank you.”

Kunhang regrets coming to be attached to the quiet scientist on an island in the middle of the ocean. He regrets asking questions, becoming fascinating, enthralled, captivated by a world he doesn’t exist in. _Can’t_ exist in – not the way he wants to. They live in worlds separated physically and proverbially by oceans. He wishes that they didn’t. But they do.

And he’s sure that he’s a passing face that Dejun won’t remember. And to say that it isn’t upsetting is a lie, though it isn’t enough to uproot him from his life established a world away. It’s enough to hope to be back one day, though.

“I hope your vacation was relaxing, at least. I keep thinking that Kun should take one, but he won’t. And I understand. We’re all afraid to take time off.”

“It was. It was a good break. I needed it.” Kunhang stares at the coffee in his hands silently before sighing. It’s a deep sigh, that begins in the depths of his soul and works its way up his throat and into the air. It’s a tired sigh. “I still need it.”

“I think when you work a job, you need to be passionate about it. Money matters, of course. And it’s a driver for a lot of decisions – that’s something I understand well. _But_ I think that finding an aspect of what you do that you feel a passion for is just as important.”

“I don’t know if I have that. Anymore, that is. I used to. I was always fighting towards this goal and, once I got there…”

Kunhang shrugs, waves his hand around as he thinks. There’s a lot to be passionate about – to fight for. It’s almost _too_ much, and Kunhang wonders exactly where to go from there. Has been wondering where to go. When he sees Dejun, he thinks he’s on his way to figuring it out – what to do with the law school degree sitting pretty on his wall.

“I’ll figure it out. Am figuring it out. I had this goal, and I met it, and maybe realized that it wasn’t what I wanted. Or needed.”

And it happens. Dejun understands that. Kunhang understands it, too. Wishes that the realization came before he was in an elected position, with power in his hands that was too much for a man who felt aimless again. He should’ve listened to his sisters, who always happened to know him a tiny bit better than he knew himself.

But he’s in a position of power, and it’s not as if he isn’t taking it seriously, contrary to the belief of those who wonder where he went. He’s using his power to fight for the things that matter most to him – equality at the forefront, in a variety of ways.

On this island, in this café, Kunhang is allowed room to think, breathe, and be. It’s space he doesn’t take for granted – wishes that he had more of.

“You’ll figure it out. You’re intelligent.”

“Did you just call me intelligent?”

“I think you chased after a dream that maybe wasn’t yours. And you’re doing a good job. So, you’re intelligent. We still have a long life to figure things out.”

Kunhang thinks that he’d like to figure Dejun out. Dejun, who likes caramel Frappuccino’s and sometimes gives a stranger life advice and passionately wants to save the world and its inhabitants – even the ones yet to be discovered. His mind is a maze that Kunhang can’t quite navigate – not yet. One day, perhaps, if they ever meet again, he will have made his way to the center, where Dejun sits, waiting for someone to find him.

“I wanted to make a change. I feel like I haven’t yet. I feel like the years I spent studying, devoting myself to a career that doesn’t even love me back, has been wasted. Nothing I do can make a difference. I think.”

Dejun stares at him carefully, words dancing on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t know what to say. So, he echoes what his father always told him.

“Small steps, small strides, small changes. My father always tells me that the smallest of changes will eventually amount to something large. You shouldn’t rush something. That takes time to be built up. You shouldn’t tear down something that’s taken so long to be created.”

His words feel double-edged – they feel meant for Kunhang in a way that holds a double entendre, one that he tosses back and forth in his proverbial head until they make sense. Until they don’t.

“Small steps.”

“No one gets anywhere without failures.”

“Even you?” jokes Kunhang, tone light.

“Especially me.”

Kunhang doesn’t want to leave – would do almost anything in his power to stay. The way that Dejun looks around, from his watch to the window, and back again, is endearing in a way that Kunhang thinks he’d like to get used to. He feels a bit of a gravitation pull to the scientist – it’s not string, but he thinks it could be if given a few more rotations around the sun.

He doesn’t want to leave, but he must. And Dejun is aware of that – that Kunhang is a temporary fit to the puzzle he’s building – the right shape, but not the right pattern. A piece of purple in a sky of blue. Disconcerting, but hauntingly beautiful. Something that fits in a way that shouldn’t work. But it does. Because it’s Kunhang, and something tells Dejun that he’s supposed to be there.

On the table, his phone rings, and he knows that it’s time to go. He can feel it in the tips of his fingers as he unlocks his phone and formulates his last goodbye to the strange man who caught his attention in an overcrowded café filled to the brim with barely enough noise. He’ll miss it, he thinks.

Outside, Kun waits, new car and all. Dejun hesitates, if only for a moment, before standing. It feels a bit final in a way that twists his stomach into knots that he doesn’t want. Doesn’t care to think about. Instead, he sticks out his hand to Kunhang who looks surprised for a moment, before taking it gingerly. It’s a gentle handshake, nothing like the first time they met in this bustling café with nowhere to go but out.

“It was nice meeting you, Kunhang.”

“You as well.”

The Subaru is pleasant – it drives well, though sometimes Dejun, on a Tuesday, will pretend there’s something wrong to see Sicheng and Yukhei who smiles and assure him that it’s okay, he can always just call them if he wants to hang out. And sometimes Ten will come along, Yuqi not far behind. Yangyang is always there – always coming and going faster than Dejun can process. They are Dejun’s little home away from home, a year in the making. Kun is a more difficult case – near impossible to lure away from the niche he’s found himself in an office on the third floor of a building with a wide window facing the sun.

(Sometimes he’ll come out, anyways.)

And, sometimes, Dejun will think about Kunhang Wong – a mystery of a man who was here for two weeks, and then gone. Yuqi will ask if he misses him and Dejun is never quite sure. He thinks that a part of him does, and a part of him wishes him well. Dejun decides that, if he were to ever see him on the street again, he would wave.

Yuqi tells him that he misses Kunhang.

(Dejun agrees, though only on Tuesdays.)

The woman at the shop down the road from the garage winks at him as she sneaks him an extra slice of spam that he smiles at, before joining his friends, a mere ten feet away. The air is warm, and a breeze caresses his cheek as he squeezes onto the bench between Yuqi and Yukhei. A place where he feels safe. Sicheng is in the middle of telling a story, Ten interjecting as he feels fit, much to the chagrin of the former.

This is a home. These people are a home and Dejun thinks that he doesn’t feel lonely. That, if the world were to come crashing down around him, he’d be terrified. But he wouldn’t be lonely. Yuqi leans against him, offering a smile as she watches him swim around in his own thoughts before coming back to them. Yukhei is a larger than life, comforting presence, who shields him until he’s ready to emerge.

They never question him – the way his eyes gloss over and sometimes he goes mum, content to exist within his own mind. They never ask what he was thinking about unless he looks troubled, and they never ask what’s wrong with him. There’s nothing wrong – they know that. He knows that. The world knows that, even if they don’t.

“ _As I was saying_ ,” deadpans Sicheng, pushing Ten’s face away from him, “Yukhei and I went spearfishing last weekend and caught an octopus. You all should come with us next time.”

“ _Or_ you all can come over and I can make you this Thai curry my mom sent me the recipe for,” interjects Ten with a bright grin. “Oh, Dejun looks interested!”

“I really like Thai curries.” Dejun pauses, thoughtful. “I like fresh seafood, too, though.”

“Why not both?” offers Yuqi, eyes wide.

“Hell yeah!” shouts Yukhei, hand shooting into the air. With it goes his fork, and food, which rains down on them amid shouting and laughter.

Yangyang rounds the corner, arms waving spastically as he rushes to get his food and plant himself between Sicheng and Ten, who welcome him warmly. Minghao walks by with a way and Dejun offers a kind smile to the man who truthfully made his life easier. It’s a Tuesday and Dejun wonders what it’s like an ocean and several thousand miles away in a town he’s never been to.

Dejun blinks before he’s back home, nestled between familiar faces.

He can wonder another time.

Kunhang Wong is a man who still struggles to find his voice in a world where his path has already been carved out. The room is large and the number of people in the room is seared into his brain from hours upon hours of proving himself worthy. He’s unsure if he actually is, but he feels that he’s done at least _something_ right as his approval rate stays constant.

He is complicit in the machine that is the government and in the back of his mind is a voice that reminds him that there’s no use in relying in big changes. That small ones matter just as much. He thinks of coffee and crowded cafés and caramel Frappuccino’s.

There is a call today – another disembodied voice there to plead its case to a room full of people who may not care. Who pretend to care. And Kunhang doesn’t want to be that person – the person who only pretends, but it’s hard not to be as the day rolls on and he feels his head become heavier by the hour.

The name of the man is familiar as a voice fills the room.

“Hello. My name is Kun Qian. I work with kāhuli – the O’ahu tree snail, an endangered species native to Hawaii. I’m unable to attend these… _gatherings_ , but I wish to speak to you all about the important of government-funded conservation efforts for native flora and fauna and why our compliance with the International Union for Conservation of Nature is so important.”

Kunhang thinks of the man of caramel Frappuccino’s, few words, and passion. Of small victories and steps towards making things _different_. How he was told that big efforts are good – of _course_ they’re good, but small steps, small strides, small changes are just as important.

One day, he’ll go back. For now, his place is here.

(And they do meet again, one day, in the same café on the same island, at the same time. Dejun holds a caramel Frappuccino in his hand and Kunhang can’t help the smile that spreads across his face, slowly, blinding. It feels cliché, in the way that Dejun seems to turn towards him slowly and time seems to stop, and it feels like it’s only them in the crowded café. But, it does. And it feels fine, Kunhang things. It is fine.

Small steps, small strides, small changes. They are enough.)

**Author's Note:**

> the concept of mortality is a strange one.  
> this is a lot and i wrote it on a whim in two days.  
> find me here:  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/nsofties)  
> [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/nsofties)


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